


We Who Wander

by joonfired



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Action/Adventure, Angst and Feels, Cannibalism, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Do I have enough tags yet?, Everyone Needs A Hug, Expanded Universe, F/M, Furiosa is a legend, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I enjoy writing gritty fight scenes, I love Wasteland slang, I torture my characters a lot, Illustrated, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Mad Max Series (Movies), Max Rockatansky Comes Back To The Citadel, Max just can't catch a break, Minor Furiosa/Max Rockatansky, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Please Don't Hate Me, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Post-Mad Max: Fury Road, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Max, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, So much angst, The Wives ship Max/Furiosa, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, also an excuse to write more character study material, but whoops this is the apocalypse so hugs aren't easy to get, general post-apocalyptic violence and squeamy stuff, help I'm obsessed with this fandom, help me George Miller and make another movie already I'm desperate, long chapters, oh and all chapter titles are mmfr quotes, scavenger culture is fun to create, the new Green Place is famous, tough girls rule the world, will probably update tags as I write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-12 13:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13547856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joonfired/pseuds/joonfired
Summary: Kara has only one goal -- survive the Wasteland. Too bad she's stuck in a place that does its best to kill her every day.Alternatively titled: 'The Sprawling Sequel to Fury Road'.





	1. Here They Come Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supernoodle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernoodle/gifts).



> [I'm writing this from a very loose, omniscient perspective in present tense to mirror a movie-like experience. No, you won't be able to visualize this exactly like a film, but I'm writing with that intent.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic's version of an opening sequence like the one in the beginning of Fury Road.

Silence. Dark, utter silence . . . slipping into a whisper.

 _Hello_ , it says, barely there but resonating like a roar into the void. _Hello? Are you there?_

With a flash, the darkness is overtaken by the fluttering image of a nuclear cloud blooming into an orange flower of death, the petals spreading ruin across the world. They shake and multiply, their touch reaching beyond nations and races.

 _I am become Death_ , the whisper recites solemnly. Reverent voices take up the chant, the layering words growing illegible because of their multitude. _Destroyer of worlds._

The black falls again, and in it comes the roar of dissolving atoms. Screams sound only to be snuffed out as soon as they rise. Silence lasts momentarily, morphing into wind gusting across sand, whipping it into a frenzy.

Next flashes the glimpse of a storm, sand-soaked wind battering against the yellow hues of a cliff. Blue lightning licks out, sending boulders tumbling to the churning ground. A moment of darkness appears, like an involuntary blink, and then the storm is gone. All that remains is sand stretching into the horizon, broken only by bleached skeletons scattered about the rolling taupe like fallen branches.

 _This was the end of the beginning_ , clarifies the whisper into the hush of darkness. The words echo off one another, bouncing against invisible walls, resonating all around. _Death ruled eternal, unstoppable._

The growl of an engine cuts through the black and then exhaust gusts from rusted pipes. Tires spin into action, rolling across grit.

 _The world is dead_ , says the whisper in the dust-choked air, _but life remains._

 _Half-life_ , corrects another voice, gravelly with age. _Poisoned bones don’t last long._

 _Cracks remain_ , continues the whisper. _Poison fades. Life emerges._

The darkness and its memories and voices slip away until all that is left is Wasteland, the scorched remains of a life-soaked world that once-was.


	2. A Single Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The introduction of our lead character

The air shimmers hot over the yellow grit of the Wasteland. In the distance, a range of mountainous canyons lie as a thin smudge along the wavering horizon. The scorching heat of the sun warps and twists the searching vision so that the far-off plume of dust takes a moment to shift into sight. Though once seen, it holds the gaze, marking the path of a moving vehicle.

For a moment, there is only the steady, quiet hiss of sand gusting across the flat plains. And then the low growl of an engine infiltrates the hush of the Wasteland as the speeding vehicle guns forward into the stretching wastes. It is straining for speed, the whir of the V8 rising into a pained whine.

The reason behind the lone vehicle’s desperation suddenly appears out of the dust kicked up from its wheels: a nine-strong flock of leather-clad Raiders on their wide framed buggies. As the scavenger continues in its obviously failed attempt at escape by speed, the Raiders close the distance. Their triumphant whoops rise across the sand, mixing with the grit kicked up by the deep tread of their tires. Brandished guns catch the sunlight, flashing bright among the heat waves.

“Don’t let the water go!” one calls from a buggy with two fighters clinging to the sides of the shaking frame.

Ah, water!—the treasure in this world of dust and decay.

The driver of the fleeing vehicle hears this cry above the pressed roar of their engine, and their head turns to inspect the nearing Raiders. Their face flicks into view in the cracked surface of the left-side mirrors wired to the frame of their vehicle, dark eyes the only feature visible. The rest is swathed in gray, fluttering cloth stained yellow with Wasteland dust.

Gunshots snap out. Bullets ping against the fender and battered sides of the scavenger’s vehicle, ricocheting off into the Wasteland with metallic cries. One shot takes of the top of the left-side mirrors, further cracking the remaining glass.

The scavenger stomps further down on the accelerator in another attempt to slip out of range, but the engines of their vehicle are at their limit. Speed is no longer an option. They are at an impasse now – fight or be taken. And in the Wasteland, everyone fights.

The scavenger’s hands twist on the wheel, dirty fingertips jutting out of worn leather gloves. Sand fans out from the patched wheels as they spin the vehicle in a tight, shuddering circle and then ram the front into the unfortunate Raider in its new path.

It’s clear that the Raiders were not expecting such a drastic, offensive action. They swerve almost uncontrollably out of the way of the kamakrazee scavenger and the solid, battering front of its larger vehicle. But they recover quickly, regrouping and chasing after, sending a barrage of bullets ahead.

The scavenger spins again after a few hundred yards, but this time not as tightly. It extends an arm out of the driver’s window, automatic pistol in hand. Three shots snap out, killing two Raiders, and another buggy tumbles out of commission not very far from the crumpled wreck of the first casualty.

 

  
It’s a strange kind of dance, this spinning battle for survival. And while the scavenger faces seven buggies alone, the match doesn’t seem to be that imbalanced. The Raiders circle and shoot wildly but almost every shot of the scavenger’s finds a target. Dust soon swirls up to choke the air, obscuring vision on both sides, and the scavenger is the first to escape the blinding cloud, gaining a tentative head start on the remaining four buggies that soon chase after.

Inside the scavenger’s vehicle, under the dominating roar of the engine, there is the precious sound of sloshing water. The scavenger spares a moment to glance over their shoulder and inspect the two large barrels bolted to the floor in the back of the vehicle.

No apparent leaks – good.

The scavenger’s next glance is in the mirrors at the Raiders once again drawing close. They’ll be in worrisome distance in less than a minute, but that’s enough time to reload, as the scavenger glances down at the open slide of their pistol.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, the scavenger releases the empty clip of their pistol with the other. The clip lands on the floor to their right where a passenger seat has obviously been removed, clattering into a scattered pile of empty shells. A full clip is retrieved from the three waiting in a bin inset near the base of the gear-shift.

That takes seven seconds. It takes another two for the scavenger to slide the clip into place and rack the first bullet in, using the side of their seat to move the slide, and then they’re armed once more.

When the Raiders come up and the scavenger spins around, Wasteland rising in a curtain behind them, the buggies are prepared. They speed out of harm’s way, the perched fighters firing their blocky rifles and shotguns as the scavenger charges past. A bullet slams into the dash, mere inches from the scavenger’s hands on the steering wheel, bringing a startled yelp from them . . . quickly followed by an answering volley from their newly-reloaded gun.

A fighter slumps from a buggy, his boots caught in the roll cage. His body blocks the driver’s view for long enough that the buggy careens into the one next to it, sending the two rolling away into a cloud of dust. Now seven out of the original nine, the Raiders cut their losses and fall back to lick their wounds.

And the scavenger speeds back towards the line of canyons, disappearing into the shimmering heat of distance.

 

<\></><\></>

 

Night crawls across the Wasteland. The black is absolute, broken only by the faint silver of a waning moon behind the gauzy lace of drifting clouds. Miniature, wind-made funnels of dust whirl into sporadic existence, adding to the eerie appearance of the darkened sand flats.

The scavenger drives without a lamp, though there is one attached to the hood of their vehicle. Hours march on, marked by the ancient hands of an old-world watch visible on the right wrist of the scavenger. The ticking volume rises into a dominating echo inside the vehicle, overpowering the rumble of the engine, the slosh of water in the tanks, and the rattle of various gear.

As time still sounds by the measure of the watch, this part of the Wasteland appears empty, except for the lone passage of the scavenger. If there are any other scavengers or gangs in the vicinity, they are not hunting tonight.

 

<\></><\></>

 

Dawn comes in a riot of color that mirrors the stark shades of the Wasteland – burning yellow, bold crimson, and gold-edged pink – and brings the relentless heat of the sun to erase the chill of night. A scrap-town shimmers on the horizon, walled in a conglomeration of metal and chain-link fence topped with glinting razor-wire. As the scavenger approaches, a the stark, hand-painted letters on a large piece of metal by the gate become clear – _Trade 4 Water_.

At the gate, the keeper leans out of his metal box set above, eyes on the back of the scavenger’s vehicle where the shape of the water barrels show through the dusty, bar-guarded glass.

“Back again,” he says, swallowing noticeably, squinty gaze still fixed on the water. “Gor, you kamakrazee.”

He then disappears back into his cramped box to kick casually at a crooked lever in the farthest corner. The mechanism releases and sand bags descend on either side of the gate, accompanied by the clanking rattle of their connected chains. The gate slowly lifts from the ground, rebar frame and wired sheet metal groaning with the movement.

The scavenger drives through and into the twisting, packed-dirt streets of the town, the narrow sides composed of rickety scrap-metal houses. They park their vehicle in the shade of a central cement structure from Before reinforced and expanded with rusting sheet metal and steel bars.

The engine is turned off, dying into quiet ticks and hisses as the long-worked V8 cools. A moment later, the door creaks open and the scavenger steps out onto the packed grit of the ground. They make a clear show of holstering their gun at their right thigh before reaching up to tug the cloth down from around their face.

This scavenger is the kind of person where it takes a moment to determine their gender, dust-brown hair cropped unevenly short. The narrow planes of their face are further sharpened by a life of survival in the Wasteland. Their skin is coppered by the sun, but where the facial wrapping hangs loose around their neck like a scarf, the color fades into a paler tone.

When the androgynous confusion passes, it’s clear that the scavenger is female, but nowhere near the soft nor weak kind. This is a young woman who has been born into this harsh world, her instincts wired since birth for survival.

She walks to the back of her dusty vehicle, her movements stiff after hours behind the wheel. As the scavenger unlocks and lowers the back hatch of her vehicle, two figures exit the shadowed entrance of the building, footsteps whispering against the grit.

The two are both males of middling age clad in matching loose robes faded to the color of watery blood, unmarked by radiation but scarred by the rough life of the Wasteland. The taller one has his long, graying hair shaved on the right side of his head to accentuate and draw attention to the jagged scar that twists down from his eye to under his chin, pulling the same corner of his mouth up into an eternal sneer. The shorter man has perhaps only ten teeth, this feature revealed as he peels his lips back to shoot a dirty stream of spit onto the grit as they approach the scavenger and her two barrels of trade.

“One hundred gallons of Citadel’s finest Aqua-Cola,” the scavenger greets them, thumping the gloved knuckles of her left hand against the right-side barrel. Her voice is rough with dust and carries a low timbre but is still very clearly feminine. “Just three days old.”

“You’re a walking miracle-maker, Kara,” the spitter replies, wiping at the brown excess that clings to his thin mouth. “One day Immortan is gonna learn you got tits and then lock you up like he does with every healthy bitch he finds.”

The taller one grunts an affirmative, verbally adding, “Yeh. Old man’s crazy for clean kids.”

The scavenger, now realized as Kara, keeps her features smooth. Perhaps her body tightens defensively, but the slight movement could also be explained as the low wind shuddering across her clothes, shifting the loose cloth.

“That’ll never happen,” continues the spitter, releasing another glob of saliva onto the thirsty ground. “Joe’s seed’ll never swim straight.”

Kara thumps her knuckles against the water drum again, reminding the two that she’s here for trade, not gossip. Words aren’t a commodity in the Wasteland, especially those concerning a crazed Before-lord’s poisoned seed and the danger that surrounds her as a young, full-life female.

“Right,” the tall one sniffs decisively. After a moment of rummaging about in the multitude of hidden pockets inside his rob, he withdraws a lumpy leather pouch that clanks heavily when he tosses it at Kara, who catches it easily. “Hundred bolts for a hundred gallons.”

 

<\></><\></>

 

Kara leaves the scrap-town in the dying light of evening. The tanks rattle hollowly but her fuel gages are high and the piled supplies behind her seat have marginally increased.

As the silhouette of the town is lost into the distance, her gaze sweeps lazily across the smudging line of the horizon. She drives much more loosely than she had when traveling to the town, right hand resting on the bottom of the twine-bound wheel in a relaxed, open-palm position.

Kara is once again the lone vehicle in this part of the Wasteland, a distant line of the canyons on her right and faint dunes on the left. The ticking of her watch is muted but still sounds rhythmically in her ears.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._

Black skirts the edges of her gaze, tunneling her vision. The sound of the watch rises in pitch and seemingly increases in speed until it is the only thing she hears, the corners of her eyes narrowing in discomfort.

_Tickticktickticktickticktickticktickti—_

Suddenly, the dark stretch of the Wasteland is replaced by searing white. The light fades instantaneously, transitioning into the image of a young girl standing bloody above a body whose face has been mutilated beyond features. The girl is skinny and filthy with dark grime under the fresh crimson, a jagged piece of metal gripped in her right hand.

With another glaring flash, the girl glances up, meeting Kara’s invisible gaze, and it’s an exact mirror of her own features, merely smaller with youth.

Kara shakes her head violently, flinging the memory away, and continues back into the Wasteland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing pencil art included with each chapter is by my extremely talented brother.


End file.
